Category Archives: Inspiration

Here I am teaching a technique class at Sophisticated Productions’ Nationals in Sturbridge, MA in July 2015.

Whether you are a dance teacher, a professional dancer, or a dance student, you are likely–at one point or another–to wonder if what you do is important. Despite the seriousness with which we take ourselves and our chosen art, we can’t help but wonder if what we do matters. After all, we are not performing surgery to save lives, or rescuing people from burning buildings, or negotiating world peace. It doesn’t help either that as dancers, we are hopelessly prone to self-doubt and insecurity. We constantly question ourselves and the quality of our work, so it’s no wonder that we are likely to perpetually feel the need to justify what we do and who we are to the people in our lives and to the world as a whole.

Certainly, our work is less urgent than some others. Our problems and challenges are not matters of life and death–although they may feel like it at times. But our work and our achievements do not have to be urgent to be important. We are in the business of pursuing excellence, of incessantly aspiring to reach our next goal, of attempting desperately to move, touch, and hopefully transform our students and our audiences. I believe that we inspire and motivate–we remind the world of its own beauty. And we remind ourselves of ours. We explore what it means to be human. We make life a richer, more fulfilling experience for both ourselves and for others. And that is something certainly worth doing.

We don’t study dance simply because we love the act of dancing, although the joy we get from it may be reason enough. We study dance because of the deep wealth of experience, wisdom, and humanity that it gives us. I’d like to share with you some of the powerful and transformative lessons that dance has taught me and that I hope I somehow impart to my students.

Here I am as a guest teacher at a studio in Syracuse, NY. I’m fortunate enough to love what I do.

Aspiration: Always reaching for new heights

Dance is a gateway art form. When a young person begins studying dance, they are immediately exposed to the brilliant and scintillating world of not only the arts, but all of human achievement. Dance is the perfect point of departure for limitless discovery. I owe my lifelong affinity for French language and culture to my first exposure to the French terminology used in my dance classes. The dance world is only a step away from drama, music, musical theatre, opera, and every form of performance imaginable. Dance can provide access to cultural exploration, broadening horizons and contributing to the development of a young person’s vision and perspective. Young people who grow up in the dance world tend to be comfortable around those who are different and maintain a worldly and open view of the world.

Discipline: Mastering oneself

I tell my students that they are so lucky to have the nicest dance teacher in the world! While they don’t believe it’s true, my point is that dance teachers are notoriously demanding and no-nonsense educators. They tend to be serious and driven perfectionists who are as hard on their students as they are on themselves. Dance teachers are a special breed who don’t mess around and command respect without ever having to ask for it. As a result, dance students grow up with a sense of respect–both for their teachers and themselves. This respect and unique brand of classroom decorum translates into young dancers who are disciplined, mature, and eager to learn. I learned from my teacher to always view class as a special opportunity to learn and that we should eagerly march to the front of the room and take full advantage of what the teacher can offer us. This active and grateful approach to learning is one of the fundamentally unique aspects of dance education. Dancers grow to be active learners, which can only be beneficial in their educational futures.

Commitment: Achieving growth over the long term

Everyone agrees that the demand for instant gratification has become a hallmark of life in the twenty-first century. Today’s young people have grown up with media on-demand. Television, movies, music, games, information, and communication are available consistently and instantaneously. Dancers, however, learn the value of seeing one’s own growth and progress over the course of the long term. Since there is no such instant gratification available in mastering fouetté turns or executing a flawless grand jeté, dance students learn the value of patience, persistence, and dedication. Dancers spend months in class and rehearsal to develop their skills and polish their routines to spend a mere few minutes on the stage. It is those few minutes on stage, however, that make the tedious and repetitive drills and rehearsals worthwhile. Dancers learn this lesson early on and understand the value of committing to a goal even if the resulting accomplishment is months or years away.

Confidence: Dealing with doubt and being your best

We so often think of being nervous as a bad thing–something unpleasant that we should talk ourselves out of. Dancers learn from a young age to embrace their nerves and their fears. If you are nervous, if you are afraid of not performing well, then that means you truly care–you desire deeply to be at your best because the experience of performance and the act of sharing your talent with others is such an important achievement. When you’re a dancer, you know that those nerves will remain with you throughout your life . In fact, you actually HOPE that they do because once the nerves are gone, it may be because you no longer care about doing your best. Anyone who knows me knows I spend a lot of time being nervous. I get nervous about speaking on stage, I get nervous for my dancers, I get nervous before important meetings, and I get nervous when I travel. In fact, I even get nervous if I’m NOT nervous. It’s unpleasant at times, but those nerves remind me that what I’m being asked to do really matters and it’s important to me to do it well. I’m grateful that I know what I do is important enough that I feel that pressure.

Passion: Loving what you do

I have never met a dancer or dance professional who wasn’t madly in love with what they do. Ours is not a profession people unhappily fall into on the way to something else. The amount of work, discipline, and skill that are required to survive, yet alone thrive, in our world preclude anyone from success except those who are driven by what I consider to be the greatest gift of all: a profound love for what you do. Passion for our art is the motivator that makes the discipline and hard work a joy rather than a chore. This is not to say that dance is without sacrifice, exhaustion, frustration, discouragement, or other unpleasantness. But it is our passionate love for what we do that sustains us through the difficult times. To many of us, giving up is simply not an option; it is a preposterous absurdity. Dancers tend to be wholly invested: mind, body, and soul. We work because we must. And that work gives us everything. As a result, dancers tend to demand that joy from everything else they might encounter in life. We know what it is to perform a labor of love and we know that that is us at our best.

The following is an article that I wrote but never published on judging special awards at dance competition. The excitement of getting ready to judge at Sophisticated’s Nationals back in July of 2014 inspired me to share my thoughts. I absolutely love what I do–can you tell? Please feel free to share your thoughts!

Dancers made a sign for me in Manchester, New Hampshire!

It occurred to me to share my thoughts as I get increasingly excited about traveling to Wildwood, NJ next week to judge Sophisticated Productions’ National Dance Competition. The reason why I am so thrilled and can hardly contain my excitement is that this will be my first time judging special awards at the Nationals, although I have judged specials at dozens of competitions before. I have often joked–but still with a lot of seriousness–that my purpose in life is to do special awards at dance competitions. It is, in all honestly, those moments doing my awards that I feel I am fulfilling my highest potential as a human being and I’d love to tell you why.

I have found specials to hold the potential to transform lives and I wanted to take a moment to tell you about their impact on me and about their potential impact on the world of competitive dance.

Sophisticated does its specials a little differently than many competitions. First, there is an entire fourth judge dedicated to the sole purpose of special awards. I don’t score or speak into the microphone to give critiques. My sole purpose is to watch and enjoy every entry that performs and look for what those young dancers do well. I often have no problem finding significant achievements in young dancers that I want to bring attention to and sometimes I will give as many as 25 separate awards during a competition segment of around 60 numbers. During each awards ceremony, the crew knows to give me around 20 minutes just to complete my special awards before moving on to the adjudicated awards and high scores. Despite the jokes among all the competition staff about how much time my awards take, they know that it’s something that holds the audience’s attention and those special moments onstage are more than worth the time it takes. I’d like to explain to you the personal philosophy that makes my awards–as one experienced dance mom once said to me–”unlike anything I have ever seen at a dance competition before.”

While many lament the rise of competitive dance and associate it with increased pressure, hostility, and drama–both in real life and on TV, of course, I believe that Special Awards (especially if done the way I do them) offer a unique and powerful antidote to the negativity that can sometimes prevail in the competitive dance world. I view my job as being charged with the very serious and important task of observing, acknowledging, and encouraging the special personal achievements of the dancers I have the opportunity to judge.

There is no science to what I do. No formula or quantitative standard dictates what awards I will give or to whom. My awards don’t favor the highest scoring competitors, nor do they favor the lowest, although dancers from both of those categories do receive awards. Rather, I seek to reward what, in my judgment, might be the most special quality or potentiality offered by a particular dancer. Or I might notice what a particular dancer or choreographer might be the most proud of–perhaps their biggest achievement of that dance year. Giving them that acknowledgment and articulating to them on stage what made that piece so powerful to me and everyone else watching is not only a great delight for me, but oftentimes I hear that such a moment was just the kind of encouragement or validation that a certain dancer, teacher, or choreographer needed during whatever challenges they may be facing. This is what I like to think of as the transformative potential of the special award.

I’d love to give some examples of awards I have given. I recall giving an award to a dancer in Philadelphia who had extremely well developed technique and I knew would have a high enough score to probably be in the running for winning an overall title. During my awards, I called her up onstage with a smile and as she stood next to me I told her, “We got the chance to watch three of your solos today, which were all absolutely wonderful and so impressive, but I wanted to talk about about your contemporary piece. You were so committed, so emotionally invested in your movements, that you were able to elicit such strong and complex emotional responses in each of us. I think we all felt touched and enriched by watching you. What made this piece so special for you?” She answered, eyes welling, “it’s the one I choreographed myself.”

Giving an award I called “The Captivation Award” in Springfield

There are many lighthearted moments as well. What became my signature trademark this season was my vividly colored hair. In Springfield, Massachusetts my hair was dyed pink and on the second day of competition, an 11 year-old-boy came onstage for his solo with his hair temporarily colored pink in an obvious reference to my own. The audience went nuts and my recognizing him up on stage made his day and was surely remembered both by his family and the entire audience.

I also recall once judging in Houston, Texas. A man in cowboy boots stopped me in the hallway after the competition had ended. I will always hear his calm Texan drawl in my memory as I reflect on what he said: “I used to think that a man that didn’t work in the oil industry didn’t have a really important job. But you made my granddaughter feel like a million bucks today. You, sir, are excellent at what you do.” I was moved beyond belief because I knew that this was probably the biggest compliment he could give someone and I was so glad that he took the time to stop and give it to me.

This year, in Bristol, CT a studio from Sandy Hook, CT gave me perhaps the most humbling gift of all. They gave me a small rubber ducky with the colors of Sandy Hook Elementary School and told me how, in the wake of the terrible tragedy that happened in December 2012, students who went to school there will bestow one of the ducks to a special person who made a positive difference in their lives. They told me to take the duck with me on my travels and that I would always be safe. I have taken the duck to every competition with me, where it sits on the judging table and watches the dances with me. I will be taking my Sandy Hook duck to Nationals with me and sending a picture back to the kids in Connecticut.

In another instance, in Springfield this April, I called a girl up on stage and she came up so excited that she was practically jumping up and down. I don’t recall what score she received–it didn’t even matter to me. But her passion for performing and her effervescent personality made me think this kid was absolute dynamite. I said to her, “Wow! You seem so I excited! I love that!” Her response I will remember forever–”I’ve been coming to this competition for four years and this year I said I don’t care what kind of trophy I get at all, I’m just going to try really hard to get a special award from Jesse and now I got one!!” I was so touched, I couldn’t help but simply beam and hold back tears of my own and we gave her mom a chance to take a picture of us together onstage.

I was so touched that I had factored into her competition hopes, but more importantly, her reaction crystallized for me one very important realization: special awards and that unique chance to give a dancer acknowledgment and validation invariably make a bigger, deeper, and more memorable impact on a young person than any silver/gold/platinum/titanium trophy or place in a top ten list ever could.

As I always like to remind the dancers, “someone else doing well takes nothing away from you.”

Excited to give an award in New Hampshire

I believe that special awards offer a unique possibility within the competition world: they remind us all of what dance really is–an artform that is meant to allow us to communicate deep, complex, and beautiful feelings with our audiences, affirming that we are all indeed more similar than different as human beings. And furthermore, the power of special awards also reminds everyone of what our purpose at competition should be: to educate, to strengthen, and to inspire the talents of young people. The skills they learn here and the esteem and self-love that I hope is developed within them will carry them far, regardless of what their dreams might be.

I must admit that I really sought to “hit it out of the park” this year with regard to doing my special awards. Shortly before the competition travel season started, I watched an interview with Maya Angelou in which she offered a piece of her legendary wisdom that I have carried with me since. She said “When I step up on the stage, I bring everyone who has ever been kind to me with me.” I decided to always take a moment before I am announced to do my awards to think of people who have been kind to me and who would want me to do this job well. I thought of my dance teacher, my own parents, my dancers back at home, the competition owner Melissa Tessier who thought I would be good at this, my late grandmother, all my loving dance teacher friends, even the nice lady at the hotel breakfast that morning. Everyone who ever wished me well, I imagined them coming up there with me and I was able to relax, be so totally myself, to feel so loved, and to share that power and that sheer joy with all those kids sitting up on that stage.

This year I shared that Maya Angelou quote in every city that I traveled to and dared the kids to do the same thing before they performed. I wanted them to imagine all the people who had ever been kind to them and to do what Maya Angelou suggested: offer an invitation to those kind people, “Come with me….I’m going on the stage. Come with me; I need you now.” Don’t think about dancing “against” anyone–imagine the people you are dancing FOR. A few dancers took the time to come up to me and say that this thinking allowed them to give the best performance of their lives. I absolutely beamed. . . and I knew exactly what they meant.

Sadly, after the competition season ended, Maya Angelou passed away right before my recital. In less than a week, I put together a tap solo for myself (it has been years since I actually danced in one of my recitals but I felt it was important this time) to perform in the recital as a tribute to her. It was to a song that she had recorded in 1957 during her career as a singer. On the first page of our programs, I dedicated the performance to Dr Angelou’s memory and included her quote which has become a mantra for me everyday, “When I step up on the stage, I bring everyone who has ever been kind to me with me.”

Next week at Nationals, I will be using that advice and sharing it every time I step up on that stage. My hope is that at the final awards banquet at the end of the week, when I take the podium for the last time, everyone in the banquet hall will be able to recite that line along with me and take its wisdom with them wherever they go from there.

Thank you for your time in listening to me and allowing me to share with you a little bit about how special awards, especially those done with depth, enthusiasm, and sincerity can change and shape lives. I have had the opportunity to keep in touch with many of the dancers and choreographers to whom I have given awards and have many more stories about the impact that such awards can have.

Dancers onstage at the awards ceremony in New Hampshire when I was doing special awards.

In the dance competition world, I’m what’s called a “Special Awards” Judge. There are usually at least three judges at competitions who give their critiques of dancers’ performances and issue numeric scores and sometimes I’m assigned to do that, but usually I am the fourth judge who is tasked with the job of watching the dancers for something special that deserves an award of its own. I am so proud that I have been a special awards judge for five years now at Sophisticated Productions, a competition which places unique emphasis on special awards to encourage young dancers and also happened to have seen enough potential in me to think I might be good at giving special awards.

Once all the dancers during a particular segment of a competition have performed, I am called onstage to give the special awards before the adjudicated and title awards are announced. The Emcee (Master of Ceremonies) introduces me and hands me the microphone as I approach the podium with a basket of the awards I have decided to give for that segment. The awards are ribbons that hang from a card on which I have written the name of the entry, the title of the award, and the time and place I gave it.

On a typical competition day that may last around fifteen hours, there may be as many as three segments (each about 60 entries long–solos, duets, trios, groups, line productions, etc.) and I find myself giving about 20-30 special awards per segment. No one tells me what awards I have to give or to whom they should go; it is entirely up to me. So I set one simple rule for myself–enjoy yourself that day watching all those amazing dancers and when something just strikes you in a particularly good way, give it an award and acknowledge it onstage.

Here are three examples of awards that I have given while onstage:

Jesse: Could I please meet Sarah who performed number 173, “Brave”? [Sarah comes up to the podium] You look so nervous! Am I that scary?
Sarah: No, I just don’t know what you’re going to say!
Jesse: Well, no worries, because I LOVED your dance! You entered the stage with so much confidence that I sat up a little straighter because I wanted to see what you were going to do. You were so expressive, you poured your heart out on that stage, you held my attention and never let me go and even when you were done, I didn’t want you to leave us. Beautiful expression. Gorgeous fouettés and I gasped out loud when you opened that fouetté up into an illusion–beautiful! I’m giving you an award called “BEAUTIFUL” because there’s no more perfect word to express what I thought of your dance. I got goosebumps and I was reminded of why I love teaching this art form. I feel so lucky I had the chance to see you dance today. Thank you so much for that!
Sarah: [with tears in eyes] Thank you so much!
Jesse: You’re welcome; you inspired me!
Jesse: Could I see those two little divas who did “Baby” up here??? You guys were awesome! How old are you?
Girl: Four
Boy: Four and a half
Jesse: I LOVED LOVED LOVED your dance! And ya know what?! This audience out here just LOVED your dance, didn’t they?! [audience applauds] But what I want to know is if you guys always get along when you’re working in dance class!!
Girl: Yes
Boy: No!!
Jesse: Do you guys fight with each other??
Both: Yes!
Jesse: Well, let me tell ya, I ALWAYS fought with my sister when we were dancing and she blamed me for everything that went wrong! [audience laughs] But watching your dance, I would never ever know that you didn’t get along in rehearsal. It was so adorable, you were so cute, the audience loved you, you guys are getting the “Oh 2 Cute Award” for your duet! Congratulations!
Jesse: I want to see the little boy who did “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy!” … You were amazing! Did you hear how loud that audience was when they were cheering for you!?
Boy: Yes.
Jesse: I have NEVER in my life seen a boy do an arabesque on a John Deere tractor onstage. Or anyone, actually! That was great! Did that take a lot of work?
Boy: No.
Jesse: Oh, it was easy? You certainly made it look easy! Do you love dance?
Boy: Yeah, a lot!
Jesse: I can tell–in fact, this whole audience could tell! We LOVED watching your dance and ya know what?! I think that you’re gonna be famous if you keep doing what you love doing! Do you promise me you’ll always work really hard at what you want to do?
Boy: Ok, I promise.
Jesse: Aww, well, then I’m going to give you the John Deere Daring Dancer Award for what you did today. I thought it was great!!
Boy: Thank you!
Jesse: You’re welcome!

Those were a few examples of actual awards I have given. I feel so fortunate to, first of all, have the chance to sit at the judging table and watch dance after dance in some city and whenever I see something beyond the ordinary for whatever reason, I get to bring those dancers up on stage and talk to them and tell them what I thought.

I feel like I’m fulfilling my highest potential when I’m doing special awards because I get to watch and dissect dances, think about them, and then tell the whole audience what I thought or felt or was inspired by.

And the most beautiful part is that I really mean it. I did get those goosebumps. I was moved to tears. I was inspired to go home and work to put my own reaction into words, into movements, into choreography. I find myself also so humbled when I see work that is performed by dancers with so much more talent than I was given, or when I see work choreographed by minds so much smarter than mine. I see it, I notice it, I’m awed by it, and I just have to tell you and everyone else how much I love it. The moments when that happens are the moments when I feel like that excellence has in turn elicited the utmost excellence from me.

I remember, one moment in particular, when I had judged special awards in Houston, Texas in 2010. The competition was over and I was walking across the convention center lobby when a group of people stopped me. “Sir?” a man in a cowboy hat asked to get my attention.

“Hi,” I said, uncertain.

“I just wanted to shake your hand and tell you that most of my life, I thought that if a man didn’t work for the oil industry, he didn’t have a real job, but you, sir, you are amazing at what you do. You gave an award to my granddaughter and she and her mother are just beside themselves and taking pictures. We’re all so proud. You certainly made our day. It’s New York you come from?”

And I’ll never forget his parting words, “It was a pleasure, son. Have a safe trip back.”

“Thank you, very much.” That was the moment I decided that I wanted to do this forever. I wanted to watch dancers and tell them what particular things made them so beautiful. I like to think, somehow, that my special awards help somehow to inspire dancers to keep working and to keep being themselves.

Actually, I wish the whole world took the time to point out and acknowledge what it is that we all do well. Sometimes it’s just knowing that someone noticed that makes all the difference…

The first person I’d like to honor with my Hometown Heroes Series is my high school gym teacher, Mr Edwin Swartwout (I know…I know…it’s “physical education”). I’m sure that many–even people who know me very well–are shocked that Mr Jesse-Who-Hates-Sports would choose his high school gym (ok, ok…PE) teacher among his heroes, but here it is and indeed deserved.

I first met Mr Swartwout when he was a long-term substitute for about six weeks when I was in fifth grade. I remember him as being a nice, warm, and dedicated teacher. In fact, even though he had been studying to become a PE (see? I got it!) teacher, he saw that all of us 10-11 year olds were struggling with reducing fractions, so he went back into his old college textbooks and prepared a lesson for us on how to tell when a fraction could no longer be further reduced. It worked and it helped us. More importantly, it showed on his part that he was always thinking about his students and trying to help us understand. His lesson worked and I never forgot it, not even 18 years later (wow, can that really be?!).

But perhaps more importantly, Mr Swartwout was hired as the permanent high school phys ed (is that what they call it?) teacher when I was in eighth grade. I felt comfortable with him since he had been our long-term sub three years prior, so PE was no longer something I dreaded as a horrible class full of personal embarrassments as a result of my athletic aversion and indisposition. Rather, Mr Swarwout, focused on assessing us in terms of our “attitude,” our willingness to TRY. And at that, I was quite good. I tried everything and I did so happily. I even had a few good times. I was good at riding a bike. I was more flexible than most guys in my class. And I won at darts! I never gave him a hard time and I never appeared reluctant. If I had been assigned any other teacher, I probably wouldn’t have been as inspired. But, Mr Swartwout had the gift of being an educator who knew how to get the best out of his students. I’ll always remember one day when he–probably unknowingly–revealed his ultimate philosophy: “I just really enjoy people.” I believe him and I decided that day that I was going to live according to that philosophy, too.

Mr Swartwout was also a beloved softball coach, a position that I believe was his dream come true. He loves athletics, he loves teaching and coaching, and my sister, a dedicated athlete, loved being coached by him. He played a major role in many of her successes. And, perhaps, one of the most interesting and extraordinary things about Mr Swartwout is that he knew both my sister and myself. One was a gifted athlete and one was a “princess dancer.” I’m sure you can guess which of us was which! He treated us both extremely well, and I always felt like he valued us for our unique talents and on our own terms. Certainly, such a rare and undervalued characteristic, but one that this world would benefit from.

Years later, when I was elected to the Board of Education, I was again impressed many times over by Mr Swartwout’s genuine devotion and commitment to the position to which he had risen by that time: athletic director. He always fought for opportunities for kids and remained steadfastly committed to the notion that athletics are important because of what they can offer to young people. I supported him the best that I could, and I made it a point to praise him for his efforts, by which I was extremely impressed. Mr Swartwout is one of those people who was born with certain interests and certain abilities and who found his true calling. I admire him for finding the unique path that led him to fulfill his potential as a person–the same path that has bettered the lives of countless youths in our community.

Mr Swartwout stands out in my memory as someone who was always kind, always understanding, and took the time to figure me out. He knew sports weren’t my thing, but he made me feel like that was okay. And because he did that, I was able to grow and learn from him.

Who is the miraculous person that could actually inspire Jesse Katen to actually try at sports? Only Mr Edwin Swartwout, “Coach,” could do that. 🙂

If you are a serious devotee of the art of dance in any capacity, you have probably experienced the frustration of discovering at various points in your life that the general public, perhaps even people close to you, might not understand your world or the depth of its importance to you.

It’s common and we all experience it. I recall back in high school being told by an athlete–who was actually trying to be helpful in his own way–“Dude, you gotta do something besides dance.” I remember, very clearly, thinking to myself, “No, this is it for me. This is all I want.”

I’ve also been told, perhaps more offensively, by a dance parent, “Well, we really only want her to dance when she’s little until it’s time to do sports.” At which I smile and set my judgmental thoughts aside (or try to) and realize that they probably didn’t realize how offensive such a statement could be. What I heard was “dance is only supposed to be fun and cute and disposable and something to do before we can do the really impressive and more serious activities.”

Or, perhaps more subtly, I can’t tell you how many times I have been approached by people in social settings who begin the conversation with almost giddy excitement, “Jesse, you’re a dance teacher?! That’s so cool! I’ve been trying to get my boyfriend to do ballroom dance with me. Can we take lessons from you?” Of course, when I reply honestly, “Well…I don’t do ballroom dance.” The look on the person’s face always hovers somewhere in between disappointment and confusion as if they are debating whether not to ask out loud: “Well, then what on earth DO you do at your studio?” As if concert dance, or classical dance, or traditional dance–there really is no completely useful or inclusive title for what we do–is so unheard of that it’s not what they imagined when meeting a dance teacher for the first time.

I’m not enraged by these misunderstandings. . . most of the time. Rather, I just find myself feeling truly astonished that this world of dance–this stunningly beautiful, impossibly demanding, and so satisfying ancient artform doesn’t mean the same thing to the public at large that it might mean to me or to the dance people I love and respect.

When I say with both humility AND pride, “I am a dance teacher,” I imagine all the years I spent spending hours at the studio every day growing up, all those competitions and travels; I imagine all the dreams I’ve held since I were little, acting out the entire Nutcracker by myself in the kitchen after I was given the score on audiotape; I imagine how dance is what I spend my days working on–that I have created and built a business and career on it. I imagine the young students who are just starting to develop enough traction to progress really quickly as a result of my efforts. I imagine all these things and so it feels like a slap in the face when I realized the person with whom I’m speaking didn’t imagine any of those things, but rather thought of someone like Johnny Castle from Dirty Dancing. Of course, I don’t entirely object to that image either! But I’m sure you get my point.